


Reading Hieroglyphs

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Deaf Rose, Gen, I don't even know where this is gonna go, drabbles I guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A plotless series of disjointed drabble-esque entries marking the relationship that is Rose and her older brother Dave. Beware of weird formatting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oppresive

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not so sure what I want to do with this, really. The original idea came up through a prompt I did for my writing class. That goes for the second entry too. But I really enjoy this little 'AU' if you can call it that, so I'll probably add some more on whenever I get around to it. Maybe I'll even think up a plot. There's already a bit of subtext suggesting it. 
> 
> In any case, we'll see how it goes. For now have my shitty story.

Good morning, how may I help you?

A blizzard of fingers, hands flapping like birds – chirping silently; an echo, quick, even, an archaeologist interpreting ancient carvings. 

Oh yes, Dr. Scratch will be ready for you shortly. Where are your parents? I have some papers for them to sign.

I’ll take care of those mouthed the boy beside her, expert hands plucking the clipboard from hers – slender and soft to large, boyish, calloused. His fingerprints suctioned onto the wood and paper, knuckles leaning on their haunches, tendons popping, growling; he turned to sit. She followed. She did not bother to offer the woman a sign of thanks. 

They sat in chairs like waxed turtle shells, like swollen dragon bellies, inflated and soft, it expelled smoke when they sank in. Waterfalls of light fell from the window at her shoulder, streaming in from ghostly curtains, skirts kicking, in a hurry – high winds then, worse than when they first came in, first left the house to walk six blocks to this therapeutic office. Outside was midday humming, deep shimmers like heat waves dancing all around in transparent skirts, sultry spicy making everyone sweat, flustered. Abrasive sunshine, faces moving in mirages, it all seemed to have traveled through her feet, her eyes, shaking hands to quake and shiver and vibrate inside her and there was no way out, to expel the inaudible mess. 

Hand on her shoulder. She turned, saw the words Don’t worry, don’t freak being molded by his lips, his tongue his teeth, and she wondered how they would feel pushing against her ears. Okay Rose? 

She lifted her hands, writing contradictions into this still air, so easy a canvas to paint upon, yet her words seemed unwanted. Rose drew her hands away quickly. 

He was smiling that smile of his, that smirk, that grin that frown, all in one, sloppy, she could read him so easily she thought, the image of his amber eyes flashing in her head. They were covered now of course, the eyes behind them hidden by black shades, his eyesight dulled, she thought, sacrifice for security. Rose scowled. He was the one hiding. She was open, her hands were her wings, she was undomesticated, unafraid, why was she here? In this office purgatory, him sliding ink onto paper, spelling her name, information, why did he have to be the older sibling? She was so much smarter than him. So much more steady, trained, clean cut, open, she was so open, why were they shoving her into this cage?

Hesitantly, she knitted a plead, keeping it close, ashamed with the product fabricated; full of holes and knots but her needles were twitching like instructional ant antenna and she needed him to see and understand, take her arm and lead her away from this place. 

No acknowledgement – he was ignoring her. She pouted, clenched her teeth, the bracing black and gradual, a boa constrictor squeezing against her temple; she crumpled up the bundle in her hands, tossed it away with distain. 

The clock hands whispered to her; large skipping to seven, small trailing sluggishly from four to five. She felt him stand beside her. 

Ready? he asked, hands slow and deliberate after he’d handed that woman back the papers. Rose did nothing. Sat, clenching the wood of her seat, dug fingernails into grain.

Dave tucked his hands into his pockets - Rose flinched, as if pinched, lip twitching, she shook with emotion, the vibration of tears. He rolled his head with his eyes behind those shades, leaned over her, his blond hair almost dark as hers but shining, wispy like duckling down, smooth and tucked like his shirt, his lips moved again.  
She took his hand, pulled it from his pocket and held his fingers to her palm, softly. He didn’t smile but nodded. His posture relaxed from carpal tunnel to lotion massaged, and he pulled her up, forward, close to him, hand leaving hers and to the small of her back, careful of the bruises, the scratches, the scars hidden under her clothes like muttering mouths, like hands without fingers, no motion. 

Rose wondered if that was what silence was like.


	2. Therapeutic

It was raining again. Tiny drops of water fell to splat and bounce and spread, drape the world in inches by inches on inches of wet and cold. They were biting, descending fast, insults spat from the mouth of an angry god, words without sound but with feeling all-consuming, encompassing, and inescapable. She loved it.

He watched her from across the small café table, telling her with his shoulders and his hidden hands that he did not appreciate being dragged out into this weather. She could not see his eyes behind the black beetle shell aviators, twisted candy blackberry, but she knew. His hands tucked tight beneath armpits, he refused to speak to her until she gave sign they could retreat. She kept her fingers busy catching raindrops. 

Above them she felt the vibrations of the umbrella, wide spread like bat wings, transparent skin catching water, oiled duck feathers making the drops slide off. If Rose looked skyward she could see the shadows of each racing drop glide down the arching blue spine, drawing runes like snakes, but constantly disrupted and battered by more raindrops falling, pounding. 

Her gaze swept. She watched whole roads empty, chilled catching light as it slithered up and down the sidewalks, leaping from glass to metal, reflecting off of Dave’s sunglasses and skirting away into the air, unseen. When a car passed the cycle repeated, light twinkling through each drop, refracting, being torn apart then re-directed, tiny rainbows unsewn only to be woven back together. A symphony of colorless fireworks no one else could see or hear but her. Because she paid attention, sat and watched. She did not run from cold rain. 

Too still. Rose turned to her companion, pursed her lips, snapped Are you done perfecting your imitation of a spoiled two-year-old? He didn’t reply, hands firmly warmed by his underarms. His lips stayed pressed in a thin line as he shivered beneath cherry-red sleeves, snakes wrapping white rat torso tightly, suffocating. The image offended Rose. Stop doing that. 

He was fixed, muscle-seized, numb wrists and frostbitten fingers. His body had nothing to tell her, eyes guarded. He wasn’t even there anymore. 

Say something.

Speak to me. 

You immature brat say something.

Don’t call me a brat his lips told her, finally moving, molding the air around his face into something tangible. He curled back in to sit in immobility, but Rose had already won. She wanted to feel smug. She felt angry instead. 

You are being a brat, so I shall call you one. 

Again he broke, No I’m not you’re the one forcing me to sit out in this cold downpour fourty-days and forty-nights category shit-storm. 

It is nowhere near the ferocity of an actual storm. 

Doesn’t matter, I’m still getting wet. I want to leave. If anyone’s being a spoiled little brat it’s you sis. Survey says Rose Lalonde for one-hundred points. Crowd might be impressed if it wasn’t such an obvious answer. 

Oh please don’t go on with your metaphors now. Rose paused, hands breaking in their swift movements. 

Dave smirked. His mouth made exaggerated, sluggish movements when he replied, What’s wrong sis am I going at it too quickly for you? Can’t keep up? 

Of course not the very idea is preposterous. 

I’m going to leave now. 

Rose froze. She bit her lip and shifted uncomfortably. I don’t want to go home. 

We don’t have to go home then. We’ll walk around. Somewhere dry please for the love of god Rose you know I really hate the rain. 

That’s so silly it is harmless. 

It’s loud and annoying. A lot like you really. Come on. 

They stood up, pushed in their chairs. She found his elbow and untied pale boyish hands, and Rose smiled because Dave was moving again, twitching his fingers and weaving them into the cold air, pushing against the clay of moist atmosphere as he carved in words, found his voice, spoke to her again.


End file.
